The Inferno
by purplepop07
Summary: "Do what's right for Panem," she tells me. "Just like Katniss is the Mockingjay, you're the Phoenix. You're going to rise from the ashes of this, Bree. You're going to be the one who lived through both the Hunger Games and torture. I believe in you."
1. Chapter 1: Bree

"Tell us what you know," the sultry, robotic voice says through the intercom. The metal gag releases itself from my mouth. My hands form fists underneath the metal bands confining my wrists to the chair. I notice that the white walls are remarkably sterile for how much blood I've lost in here. A hard look settles on my face as I stare at the lilac-haired woman behind the viewing window. "Tell us," her voice repeats, "What you know."

I stare her down, unblinking, and she stares at me, too. Her hand moves slowly to the silver lever on the control system, long, black nails carefully sliding it up. The sound of the opening metal door startles me, and I whip my head around to see white-clothed Capitol guards ushering in two terrified small children wearing hospital gowns that look about eleven years old. At first I don't recognize the boy and girl.

The clicking of high heels echoes off of the hollow walls and in walks the slim woman with the lilac-colored bob who was behind the controls. She struts toward me and lays her pale hand on my head, fingernails digging into my scalp. "I'll say this again," she says, voice dropping an octave. "Tell us what you know about the Rebellion."

I look up at her, hatred in my eyes and noting the lack of emotion in hers. "Fuck. You," I spit in her face as a deep laugh bellows from my chest.

I almost think I see a slight hint of anger flash across her face, but she regains her composure, wipes her face, and releases my head, gesturing to the guards. The guards bring the two children over to me, and then I see their eyes; the same eyes as my own.

"Olive! Vernon!" I exclaim, attempting to break free of the restraints around my wrists and ankles so that I can help my twin siblings. The guards raise their guns and point them at my brother and sister. "No!" I cry, turning to the woman. "Please! Don't hurt them! I'll…I'll talk! I promise."

Vernon starts to whimper. "Bree," Olive says sternly, her curly dark brown hair swishing as she moves toward me. She's always been the more mature twin; she's basically like _my _twin, though I am four-and-a-half years older than her. "Do what's right." She grabs my hand and squeezes her small fingers into my palm, a gesture used in District 1 when attempting to comfort somebody. Marvel did it to me the day we went into the Games.

"Not if it hurts you," I whisper-scream. "I'm _not_ going to let them hurt you or Vern."

Olive closes her eyes tightly for a second, but then opens them and whispers. "Do what's right for Panem. Just like Katniss is the Mockingjay, you're the Phoenix. You're going to rise from the ashes of this, Bree. You're going to be the one who lived through both the Games _and_ torture. I believe in you." Her tone is heartbreaking, because she knows she will die if I do what's right. But I can't bring myself to allow my siblings, who I've tried so hard to keep alive, to die.

"That's enough!" the woman scolds, and the guards seize my brother and sister. Then, she walks over to me, and I notice her nametag. _Dr. Lilica Refsher._ Dr. Refsher slaps my face with all her might, and I feel the welt forming on my cheek. "Talk!" she exclaims.

I look at Vernon, and then at Olive. They both nod knowingly to me and touch three fingers to their lips, stretching those fingers out towards me. The District 12 gesture that means "goodbye" to someone you love. I start to sob and look up at Dr. Refsher. "NO."

The shots bang so loudly that I jump in fear that I, myself, was the victim. When the pools of blood well at my feet, though, I know it's not me. I force myself to look at the lifeless and mangled bodies of what I once knew as my siblings.

The sobs rack through my body uncontrollably as I cry out, "You're a terrible, terrible woman! How can you kill children? They were eleven years old, for God's sake! God have wrath upon you and the entire Capitol!" The guards carry the bodies away and Dr. Refsher strolls back behind the controls.

Her voice trills triumphantly over the intercom, sounding significantly less robotic than before. "We'll have to try alternate methods."

Between anguished sobs, I scream, "What else could you do to me? You took away what I loved the most!"

Her eyes narrow from behind the window as she presses a small button, which makes two, sterile-looking syringes with long needles inject something into my arms. She smirks evilly. "Have you ever heard of tracker-jacker venom?"


	2. Chapter 2: Bree

A blindingly brilliant white light shines in my eyes, causing me to squint. I glance down to see the intravenous tubes pumping tracker-jacker venom into the veins of my arms. A pained whimper escapes my lips as I fidget my confined wrists beneath the straps.

"Your name is Breelle Elispeth Tylk. Katniss Everdeen killed your twin siblings," a cruelly kind, masculine voice says over the intercom. By his voice, I can tell that he is between twenty and twenty five years old and is likely very attractive. The realization that I don't recognize this voice, however, sends a new wave of panic through me, and I whimper louder. "She tried to kill you and your ally, Rue."

I try to remember this, but the memory escapes me. The image of a stern-faced—but kind—girl with grey eyes and black hair handing a roasted bird leg to me flashes across my mind, but the memory is blurred and a jolt of pain is sent through my body.

"Repeat, Breelle," the voice enunciates smoothly and kindly. "'My name is Brelle Elispeth Tylk. Katniss Everdeen killed my twin siblings. She tried to kill me and my ally, Rue.'"

My wild eyes shake in their sockets as I manage to choke out, "My name is Breelle Elispeth Tylk. Katniss Everdeen killed…She killed…" The jolt of pain radiates through me again and this time, I scream.

The man encourages me sweetly, despite the searing agony he inflicts upon me. "Keep going. It's just me, Dr. Klein. You have nothing to fear, honey."

I close my eyes tightly and shake my head erratically at his cruel kindness. "She killed…Olive and Vernon…"

"…Your siblings," Dr. Klein finishes, soothing voice echoing through the dark, cavernous laboratory like satin slipping on clean skin. "She killed your siblings, and…?"

"And my ally, Rue. In the 74th Annual Hunger Games," I whisper softly, though something about this statement doesn't seem right. I distinctively remember her singing to Rue in a field of flowers…Suddenly, my mind blurs and I can't remember a thing as pure, unadulterated pain runs through my body a third time. "Please," I beg. "Make it stop."

"If you just cooperate with me here," the doctor says. "You'll make this easy on both yourself _and_ me. I hate to see such a beautiful girl suffer."

I cry silently and nod my head.

"Now," he continues. "You will tell me the first thing that pops into your mind when I say a trigger word or phrase. Ready?"

I nod again.

"Alright. Hunger Games."

"Peeta," I respond, the words tickling my lips as my mouth forms them.

"Pain."

"Now."

He hesitates for a long moment before asking the next word. "Family."

"Dead," I respond, and for some reason I visualize Katniss piercing Olive and Vernon with her arrows.

"Life."

"Worthless."

"Hope?"

I stop for a minute to catch my breath. "Phoenix."

Klein's curiosity obviously heightens because he asks, "Why 'phoenix?'"

I look up into the blinding light and smile a bit. "Because it's the bird that lived. It rose from the ashes—the highest point of death and hopelessness—and was reborn."

I can practically sense his ignorant shrug from behind the window as he carries on. "Hate."

"Katniss."

"Kill."

"Katniss."

"Murderer."

"…Katniss."

"Perfect!" He exclaims, excitedly. "You're almost ready. We still have to erase and reprogram some of your other memories, but you're getting there."

"What? What other memories?" I cry. What does he mean by "reprogramming?"

"You're still thinking about Peeta," he says, disdain and disappointment in his voice. "We've already erased Marvel, though."

As _if_ I know what he's talking about. Confused, I ask, "Who's Marvel?"

The doctor exclaims again, "Exactly! Wonderful, wonderful! We're making remarkable progress. Almost finished…" I hear his long finger press a button. My mind quickly blanks again and all memories of the distant person I once knew by the name of Peeta are erased.

"Let's try this one again," he states cautiously. "Hunger Games."

"Killing Katniss at any cost," I respond without hesitation.

I hear the sinister smile in his voice as he says, "You're ready."


	3. Chapter 3: Marvel

Madge Undersee is dead.

She died in the bombing of District 12, along with hundreds and thousands of other people; innocent people who were simply performing mundane, everyday tasks. Selling goat milk. Going to the mines. Baking. Hanging out at the Hob. Simple little tasks performed to survive in the hellhole of an existence, and how did they get rewarded? Not with food or money, no. They burned, one by one, into the fiery flames that licked and ruined the entire District. A District I had only just begun to call home.

And I saw her die. I watched helplessly as she stood at the barbed wire fence, trying to save her as a second explosion devoured her skin, flesh, and bones until she was nothing but a faint reminder of what once was.

Now, I sit on the bed of my humble compartment in District 13, comparing it to the meager shack I had in District 12. Sure, it's nicer and larger, to say the least. The floors are a silvery, smooth, linoleum style, not splintered wood planks that grow weeds in between their cracks. The monochromatic color scheme is nice and organized, but it's not like my thrown-together, makeshift living room with the worn leather chair and fireplace. In other words, District 13 doesn't feel like _home_. Then again, neither did District 1, which is where I am actually from.

In my hands, I twirl the plump, red strawberry I've been holding in my hand for the past hour. (I snuck it into my room, of course. The District 13 laws and rules are extremely strict.) This monotonous action resurfaces the painful memories I've experienced in the past few weeks. I realize that I never really sorted out my feelings for Madge. She was a good girl—a smart, honest, shy one who listened to everything and everyone. And then there was her strange, quirky love for strawberries in all forms. Sorbet, cake, or just the sweet berry itself. It was just like her; sweet and yet containing something tangy that you can't quite put your finger on. Something that just draws you to it like a butterfly to a flower. We shared so much together, but there's one secret we both promised to take to the grave, a promise which has already been fulfilled on her part.

It was a few days before the bombing of 12, and we were doing our usual hour-long walk, except the sky was bleak and there was something intangible hanging over us. Something that was almost ominous. Madge could even sense it; she was speaking more hurriedly than usual. She was the first to break the silence between us—something that very rarely occurs.

"You still love her, don't you?" she blurted in a quick, soft manner.

"Who?" I asked, staring down at the crunchy skeletons of the leaves on the warm forest floor that were the remnants of a winter recently passed.

She whirled in front of me so that we faced one another. "Bree. I don't blame you, though. Everyone loves her." Her voice was sad as she said this.

I was so astonished that I dropped the pocketknife that I have kept with me ever since the Games. Yes, I'm _that_ paranoid. "What? What are you talking about?"

"The way you talk about her. How worried you are that she's been kidnapped. I can just tell. You're not very subtle, Marv," she said, and I cringed at the nickname she had suddenly given me because it's the same one Bree once used for me.

All I wanted to do was forget about Bree. It was hard enough as it was knowing that she is emotionally incapable of loving anyone but Peeta Mellark. Peeta, Peeta, Peeta. Who the hell _doesn't _love Peeta? Combine that with the fear that she'd been tortured by the Capitol for something she didn't really know. I considered this for a second, and decided to protest Madge's proposition. No more Bree for me. It's too much of an emotional investment. "You're wrong," I contested angrily, shaking my head.

"No," Madge started slowly. "You hate Peeta because Bree loves him. You want him to feel the same pain you felt when you lost Bree to him and the Capitol. It's obvious you still love her," she paused for a second. "Don't you dare tell me I'm wrong. I know you like a book, Marvel Corvan."

All I could think of at this point was my heightening anger towards her thinking she knew every little thing about me. "Shut up," I grumbled. "You know nothing about how I feel."

She smiled a bit. "Oh, don't I, though? What do we talk about every day on our walks? I know a lot more about you than you think." Damn. She knew me like the back of her hand.

We stood stationary for an awkward beat until she suddenly seized my face, pressing her cold but soft, smooth lips gently against mine with eyes shut tight. The shock of her kiss overcame me, but something inside me wanted to kiss back. It just felt…right. I closed my eyes and gave in for a while, until she retreated back into her normal, quiet little Madge-shell.

"I also knew you would kiss me back," she murmured softly, eyes downcast. "You're most passionate when you're angry."

My eyebrows furrowed as I put a hand on her shoulder. "You were wrong, Madge."

"What?" she asked, confused.

"I can't love Bree anymore. It's too painful."

"I know. I just wanted you to kiss me," she spoke slyly, a deep blush creeping across her cheeks.

I smiled at the fact that she's been planning this all along. "Don't tell anyone."

An uncharacteristically wild grin spread onto her face. "Only my diary."

With that, I slipped a freshly-picked strawberry into her small, clammy palm as she left. That was the last I saw of her before I saw her dying in the flames that charred her body unrecognizable.

I realize that I had grown to know her more than anyone in my whole life, besides my family. She was the closest thing I had had to friendship in forever. The closest thing I had come to loving again…

A heavy, repetitive knock on my door startles me. I run to the metal door and almost rip it off the hinges. "What?" I say angrily, eyeing the person who stands before me.

Gale's face is slightly red from exhaustion; it's clear that he has been running everywhere in order to find me and tell me whatever this news is. He breathes heavily as he says, "You've got to come to the infirmary."

"Why?" I ask, already sliding on my standard-issue, ill-fitting shoes.

His eyes grow wide as he speaks the impossible. "They've rescued Breelle."

And just like that, my complete protest of love for Bree dissolves like the strawberry I crush in my palm.


	4. Chapter 4: Marvel

My feet step cautiously and nervously over the smooth linoleum leading to the infirmary. Everything seems to be going in slow motion—the slow, gasping breaths I take to calm myself, the concerned voices slipping through the cracks of the doors of the infirmary, Gale's hand that reaches tentatively for the silver door handle—until Gale whips open the door and we step inside, taking in the nervous glances of the District 13 doctors, Prim Everdeen, and her mother.

Through the other side of the observatory window lies the girl I loved, strapped to a hospital bed. The girl I promised myself I'd die for. I breathe deeply until I am nothing but air, attempting to float away from here so that I don't have to see her. Anything to avoid witnessing what the capitol could've done to her. Instead, Gale—sensing my disdain and being the "awesome" friend that he is—pushes me towards the controls and whispers something to one of the doctors. The doctor gives him a hard stare in return, and firmly nods his head.

Gale walks back over to me and speaks lowly and quickly. "You're going to have to go in there with her. It's the only way we can try to see whether or not she's sane."

I nearly choke on my own spit when he says this. Emotionally, I can't go in there with Bree. I'll have some sort of panic attack, and then _I'll _be the one they put in the infirmary. "I can't do it," I say. "I can't."

"You have to," he responds. "For her."

My eyes shut themselves tightly as I mindlessly walk to the door of the observatory hospital room. One of the doctor's nasally voices rings in my ear. "If anything goes wrong at all," he says. "You get right back in here, you hear?"

I open my eyes, nod my head, and enter the door, which locks behind me. I begin to wonder why they needed locks in the first place. Surely Bree isn't _that_ dangerous, right?

She is lying directly in front of me, gray hospital gown barely covering the bruised and damaged flesh of her body. Her auburn locks lie wet and stringy, pressed against her forehead as it glistens with sweat. Her eyes are closed softly, as though she is taking in every sound and smell her senses can pick up.

"Bree?" I ask quietly, and immediately her eyes fly open. It is now when I notice the crazed glare she gives me. "Bree," I repeat. "It's Marvel. I missed you."

A pained look crossed her face, as though she is trying to remember something but her thoughts conflicted each other. For the first time in nearly a month, I hear her distinctive voice, hoarser than what it used to be. "I…I don't know who you are."

Her words slap me across the face once, and then backhand me a second time. How could she not remember me? We've known each other for years! We went to the same school back in District 1. Our fathers were in business together. We competed in the 74th Hunger Games together. Not to mention that _I _was the one she gave her virginity to…

All of the kisses we shared, all of the hugs and laughs and promises and comforts we gave each other have been thrown out the window and trampled upon through that one statement. A small tear of distress wells at my eyes as I say, "Y-You don't remember me…?"

She shakes her head gingerly, and by the look in her eyes I can tell that she knows her words have stung me. But a hard, stern expression settles on her face as she asks, "Did she put you up to this?"

"Who?"

"Katniss. She put you up to this, I know. She's trying to confuse me, you see. She wants to confuse me and make me think I knew you so that she can find me at my weakest, and then kill me. She killed my siblings, and now she wants to kill me and destroy the Capitol, who tried to protect us," she states matter-of-factly, like she is confident in her belief. "So tell me who you really are."

I stride over to her and kneel by her beside. "I'm Marvel Corvan. And…I love you. You loved me once, too. But you chose Peeta Mellark over me," I admit softly, touching the smooth white underside of her forearm

Bree's face drastically changes expression as she takes in what I've just said. I watch as the emotions pass across her face, her thoughts conflicting again. "Peeta…" she trails off, biting her purpleish-colored lower lip. Suddenly she whips her head back to me. "You're lying. Peeta Mellark never existed. You're making him up! It's just another ploy of Katniss! I'll kill all of you, every single one!" She is violently shaking, attempting to break free of her restraints and I see the leather strap confining her right wrist snap.

"Get out of there, Marvel," Gale's raspy voice screams over the intercom. "You've got to get out! She'll kill you!"

"No!" I cry, my obstinate streak rearing its head once again as I hear the other leather wrist strap snap free. I throw myself on top of Bree so she doesn't get out of the other strap lying across her chest. Her hands fly up to my throat as though to choke me, but I smack them down and pin her to the hospital bed. Thank God for my quick reflexes due to endless hours of training.

"Let go of me!" She screams, body squirming underneath my legs as I straddle her.

"Not until you calm down!"

She spits in my face, snarling like a feral animal, but I still keep my hold of her. A long string of curse words whip from her tongue until she finally exclaims, "What do you want from me?"

I huff in relief and impulsively kiss her, my lips matching the contours of hers perfectly. I haven't kissed her in what seems like a lifetime, but I can tell this brings back some sort of remembrance to her because her back arches to kiss me back. I let her hands fly up to my hair and lose themselves in it. The passion and familiarity almost overcomes me when she shoves me off of her and onto the floor, the final strap across her chest breaking.

"You're not Peeta," Bree whisper-screams angrily, small hand firmly grabbing my face. So she _does _remember! I laugh in twisted delight. Sure, she has rejected my offers of love for the umpteenth time. I'm used to that from her, now. But me kissing her has brought back the sense of loyalty she feels to Peeta. She's not just the crazed District 1 girl rescued from the torture of the Capitol. She is slowly becoming Bree again.

"You're right," I laugh. "I'm not! And who is?"

Her face blanks again as she releases my cheek and curls up in the fetal position on the bed. "I…I really don't know…"

"I thought you said he didn't exist?"

"He…well…I don't know anymore," she says, her sobs filling the small room. "I don't know anything anymore! I don't know where I am. I don't even know _who _I am."

Her sadness is agonizing to witness. I sit by her and set her head in my lap, stroking her hair just like the night before the Games. "Bree," I mutter. "What did they do to you?"

She states a bunch of unintelligible words and phrases until one finally sticks out to me: "They did something with tracker-jacker venom."

At this, I immediately stand up, taken aback by what she's just said. The same nasally voice of one of the District 13 doctors speaks over the intercom system. "Mr. Corvan, please remove yourself from the premise or else we will be obliged to remove you ourselves."

I stumble backwards towards the metal door and stutter, "I-I'm so sorry. I have to go."

The last thing I see before I exit the room is the distressed visage of Bree as she touches three fingers to her lips and extends them towards me. She is saying goodbye to someone she loves. She is saying goodbye to me.

Maybe, somewhere in the back of her tracker-jacker-venom-filled mind, there's that little voice reminding her that she remembers who I really am.


	5. Chapter 5: Bree

There is more morphling pumping through my veins than actual blood. I stare mindlessly at the IV tubes streaming from my arms, their squirmy bodies pumping the drug into my body like snakes injecting venom into the white underside of my arm.

Since I've been getting "better," they've moved me to the actual infirmary, not the mental ward where I once resided. Even still, they've had to do this to me several times a day for the last few weeks just to shut me up. Because the morphling is an anesthetic and a sedative, I usually sleep most of my days off. Every so often, though, I wake up from horrid nightmares consumed with either fake or actual memories of the Games, of Katniss murdering my family, and occasionally, broken memories of the purported "Peeta" Marvel says exists. _I still don't buy it,_ I think to myself, but with every shred of memory I gain back I doubt myself more and more. Sometimes it'll be something small—snippets of a conversation, snowflakes on blond lashes, the glint of unnaturally blue eyes—and other times it'd be something more unbelievably real; a tender kiss on cold, pink lips, a loving and warm embrace, the feel of a soft wool sweater underneath my fingertips. Something that suggests that if this "Peeta" was a real person, we had something. The pieces of the puzzle come together in my mind.

If he was real, we were once in love.

I am about to drift off again into a confusion-plagued sleep when suddenly, the door to the almost-completely-empty sector of the infirmary I reside in flies open. I peek behind the gray hospital curtain to view the situation. In rush about twelve nurses, doctors, and officials, including President Coin, Gale, and Marvel. Their bodies carry and shield something—rather, _someone_—who bucks and squirms violently underneath what I recognize only to be a straightjacket. This individual seizes my attention as his frighteningly familiar, beautiful blue eyes shine wildly under the fluorescent light.

"It can't be," I breathe, voice barely audible over the boy's incessant crazed screaming about the evils of Katniss. "He's not real. I'm hallucinating."

They carry him over to the empty bed to my right, remove the straightjacket, and strap him down to the bed as he cries obscenities to them all. His anger is etched onto his face via the bulging veins on his forehead until he quickly whips his head around towards me, sensing my awestruck gaze. Immediately, his glare softens into something of recognition and confusion, and I can only imagine that my visage bears the exact same expression. So, my heart throbbing madly in my chest, I ask the impossible. "Is your name Peeta?"

He continues to stare at me softly, lips parting slightly as he whispers, "Yes. And you're Bree."

I nearly fall out of the bed when Peeta says this. Who is he and why does he know who I am? More importantly, why do I know who _he_ is? My fingernails (which are now nothing but nubs due to my extreme anxiety and depression) dig into the fabric of the bed sheet as I realize my suspicions are confirmed. Marvel sees my distress and walks over to try and keep me from having a nervous breakdown, but I wave him away and demonstrate that I can handle this like a fully-functioning young woman.

I attempt to stare Peeta down but end up growing slightly distracted by his attractiveness. "How do you know who I am?"

"I remember something about you," he begins, nodding his head rapidly and sending his wavy blond hair flying about on his head. "I remember a long time ago. There was a hallway…and bench…and a kiss—" He pauses and some sort of venomous pain clearly seizes him. His back arches as he screams out in agony. For some reason, I become extremely upset by this and begin screaming, too, watching the doctors pin him down and inject him with a syringe of light-yellowish liquid. Morphling.

Marvel covers my mouth with his hand, voice shaking through the chaos as he repeatedly says, "This wasn't a good idea. This is bad. This is really bad."

I stop screaming like a maniac and look into his eyes. "What do you mean?" I cry from behind his hand.

He removes his hand from my mouth. "You're his trigger!"

"What?"

"You're what gives him the distress that sends the tracker-jacker venom into his brain, confusing him even more." he pauses for a second. "We can't have you around him. He'll kill you, just like how you tried to kill me."

I am furious. "No," I start. "He'll be fine! Please don't move him away! I have to know more!"

I see Marvel press a button on the side of my bed, and immediately I know he has betrayed me. A shockingly large amount of morphling is pumped into me again, and the last thing I see before I fall asleep is the sad but understanding nod Marvel gives me.

I wake up with a sudden start and take in my surroundings. It's remarkable how these District 13 people can make a scene look as though nothing had happened. My hands fly up to my eyes in order to rub them, and they open to look at the IVs still hooked into my forearms. I rip them out in rage, upset with the fact that I'm just here at anyone's beck and call and that they can put me to sleep whenever they don't need me. Blood droplets form on my arms where the entryways made for the vile tubes were.

"Fuck this," I find myself saying, getting slowly out of bed and adjusting my hospital gown. My eyes fall upon the person strapped down to the bed next to me, and my breathing goes shallow as I remember who he is. _I guess they didn't end up moving him after all_¸ I think.

Slowly, very gingerly as to not wake him, I sit at the edge of Peeta's bed and pull back the thin hospital sheets that graze his sickly pale skin. As though by reflex, my fingertips travel gently down the contours of his body, taking in the hairy, goosebumpy feel of his leg and then the smooth metal of the other, which I realize is a prosthetic. I close my eyes and begin to cry for this boy who I don't really know, but at the same time know him so well. Whatever the Capitol has done to him, it appears to be irreversible.

My hand has just settled on his pectorals when his own hand suddenly grabs it. His eyes are wide open in terror and some form of anger. I jump a little out of shock from the quickness of his action and say, "I'm sorry."

"No," he says, fingers sliding firmly up my arm, causing me to cry out a little in pain. "I know who you are now."

"Please let me go," I whimper, attempting to wrench my wrist free of his grasp. "Peeta—"

"They told me you weren't real. They told me you were just a figment of my imagination. They told me I was crazy…" he trails off blankly, eyes drifting into some unknown and forsaken place. He suddenly snaps back to the present though and laughs manically. "But I'm not crazy! You're right here in front of me! I knew you were real."

It feels like my heart just dropped a thousand feet into my stomach because I now realize that by "they," he means the Capitol. They did the same thing to him that they did to me. They tortured him and breached his memory, filling it with things that he's still not sure were real or not. At least now I have some of my memory back, enough to consider me somewhat sane. I breathe in sharply and whisper, "I didn't know you were real until now, either."

Peeta's right eye twitches a bit as he sits upright and loosens his grip on my arm. "I can remember only a few things," he replies, Adam's apple bobbing as he dry swallows, and I realize that he's about to go into another tracker-jacker-venom fit.

"Don't," I plead, not ready to end my somewhat normal conversation with him. "Don't remember. Please."

A deep rage creeps up his cheeks. "No!" he snaps. "I'm going to do what I want! I've been doing what other people want for far too long!" Despite my dumbstruck expression, he breathes in deeply and continues. "They did something to my mind. I don't know what. I know I've got all these good memories about you, but when I try to remember them, something happens and I just—"

I finish his sentence. "You just don't. I know." Peeta gives me a questioning stare, so I decide to explain. "I think that they did the same thing to me…but with you and Marvel."

"Marvel? You mean that guy who looked like he wanted to kill me earlier for talking to you?"

I laugh a little, because a little bit of the old Peeta has shown itself. "Yeah. He's um…well, he loves me."

All is silent for a moment, but I swear I hear Peeta mumble, "I can understand why." He huffs sharply and continues, now audible. "It's Katniss's fault. I know it. What did they do to us?"

"I don't know," I lie softly. I don't want to be the one to have to tell him; I'll leave that for the doctors.

He plops his head back down unto the pillow, buries his face in his hands, and begins to cry. I stare upon him with pity and curl up into his side, my hand pushing the hair out of his face. "Why me?" he cries, sobbing even harder. "Why did they do this to me?"

Peeta's raised a valid question, and the only answer I can give him is, "I wonder the same exact thing about myself." Because all really I knew about myself before I was "rescued" from the Capitol was that I am from District 1, competed in the Hunger Games, and that Katniss Everdeen killed and is still trying to kill everyone I love. I can't offer him any solace, any words of sanity because I, myself, am not fully sane. I still don't really know who I am or who Marvel or Peeta are. I still don't know how I survived the Hunger Games. I still don't know why I was rescued from the Capitol. And I still don't know why Katniss killed my family.

But that's what Peeta and I have in common. She's obviously ruined both of our lives. So now, curled up against his heaving body, I come up with another solution. "You're right. It's all her fault. That's why we're here. That's why they chose us—"

Peeta finishes my thought without my asking him to. "To kill her."


	6. Chapter 6: Peeta

Life's a constant game of determining what's real and what's not real, but reality is a funny thing. So often, we go through our daily tasks and don't question life; what's here and now is reality and what we can't see or taste or smell or feel or hear is not. But at times, we may have dreams or thoughts so vivid that they blur the line between truth and fiction. So who's to say I'm not really lying in a stiff hospital bed in District 13; that I'm simply dreaming and am really home in District 12 in my own, narrow but soft bed? Who's to say that the constant flashbacks I have about Katniss are not simply imagined; that she really is as evil as to kill my entire family? And who's to say that the odd, petite, frail, red-haired girl that lies with her weak body pressed closely into my chest is not some twisted and potent mirage that, in my insanity, I've imagined?

As though on cue, she stirs relentlessly as a pained outcry escapes her lips. "No," Bree cries in her sleep. "What do you want from me? You've taken everything I have; you've even killed my family! What's next, Katniss?"

By some sort of compassionate reflex, I squeeze her delicate frame even further into me, pressing out the obviously terrifying nightmare from her brain. "Please," I beg, because if she goes even more insane then I will, too. The way her body tremors is unnatural, almost as though she is having a seizure. "Please wake up." I am desperately shaking her now.

Her eyes snap open and the tears gush from her eyes. She gasps for air in between helpless sobs and manages to choke out, "Peeta!"

"Shh, shh. I'm here," I respond sympathetically, petting the soft, auburn, downy hair that's plastered to her forehead from sweat. "It's not real—Katniss can't hurt you anymore." I shudder a little bit as I say this, because that disgusting _mutt_ that damaged us both is the reason why we are here in the first place.

Bree's helpless tears sink further into the thin fabric of my hospital gown and her body racks with cries, making her seem more vulnerable than ever. A few hours ago, I would've considered her to be the saner one of us, but I can now see that we are both just as broken. Each of us is just as crazy as the other—our common hatred for Katniss is what is bonding us together. And maybe…something else. Her hands pressed against my chest feel vaguely but uncannily familiar. It almost feels natural for me to be holding her like this, as though we've done it thousands of times before.

"She killed them," she sputters wildly. "She shot Ollie and Vern with her arrows. And then she set them on fire!"

I hesitantly touch the porcelain skin of her forehead and say, "It's all over now. We've got to show her how she hurt us." But I can tell this isn't completely what she wants to hear because her lips bury themselves into my neck. This gesture is so unexpected that I begin to push her off me, screaming, "What are you doing?"

Bree shakes her head, tears spilling out onto flushed cheeks. "I just want someone who knows what I'm going through. Someone who can identify with me. It's so hard; I just don't know what's real or not real anymore," she breathes in exhaustion, nuzzling herself back into my body. "You of all people know what I mean."

Slowly, ever-so-slowly, I am becoming receptive to the beautiful girl beside me. She's like a wilting flower, and I fear that in the flames of Katniss's destruction she might be destroyed. Like me.

"If I see her, I'm afraid I'll kill her," I say aloud, and Bree perks up at this.

"I don't want to kill her. I just want her to know what she's done to me. I'd rather have stayed dead, murdered by Cato, rather than to witness the deaths of my siblings," she spits, fists tightening into balls around the sheets covering us.

Something about what she's said sends a wave of remembrance through my mind, and I recall, long ago, watching on a television where a massively muscular boy straddled a small, ballerina-like-framed girl whom he pinned to the wet earth. Rain fell from the angry grey sky; hunger was etched on her face and in his lascivious eyes. The rain drenched his burly body till the thin green shirt he wore clung to his broad chest. His breaths were heavy and his voice was triumphant, but hers was small, scared, and pleading. He began to take advantage of the small, lanky girl, running his knife across the cleavage of her chest and deciding to stab her over and over again. Dread fills me down to the bone as I realize that this girl was Bree.

"Don't say that. He was going to take advantage of you if you hadn't escaped," I mutter into her hair. He was sick—he even licked her blood from the knife he stabbed her with.

"It's true though. Reliving the deaths of the people you loved most is worse than anything."

Does she know I've just relived _her_ death in my mind? The words shock me as they come out of my mouth. "I'm glad you're here with me."

The heavily-lashed, amber-brown eyes that were downcast bring themselves up to my own, and all of my issues and confusion melt away. It's just us, here and now in the sterile hospital room, surrounded by nothing but the buzzing of fluorescent lights and the scent of cleaning solution. Its real; the touch of her lips against mine, the tough fabric of our clothes rubbing together, the feel of her smooth leg gliding across the hair of my only sensory one. She is not some dream materializing from my psychosis. She is and has always been real.

Our lips barely make contact, but it's enough to send the flurry of confusion flying through my brain once again. My body is shaking so much that the heart monitor liked to me through wires is going insane, its crazed beeping growing louder and quicker. In less than thirty seconds, white-clothed doctors rush in with cries of "Get her out of here!" and "Get him the morphling, stat!" The next thing I know, Bree is being ripped from my arms, screaming my name as they inject her with the yellow liquid that puts people to sleep. Evidently, I had been hurting her because there are fresh bruises rising to the surface of her cheeks and neck. An official carries her limp body away.

I begin to panic for her and rip the thin, snaking wires off of my quavering body. _They'll take her to Katniss_, the vicious voice in the back of my mind whispers malevolently. _They'll take her to Katniss, and then that mutt'll kill her._ My enraged screams fill the air of the quiet room as the medical personnel pin me down to the bed and inject me with what they call morphling, causing my fighting body to unwillingly shut down. My eyelids grow heavy and close themselves, but I still hear my own feral cries that fade out until they are silent nothings; the only reminders that what has just happened was real.

I awaken with a start, surrounded by doctors, when the sliding metal door opens to reveal a pretty olive-skinned girl with striking gray eyes and a delighted smile on her face. Then I sit up, unconfined by any body constraints, and put a name to this face. It's not Bree. It's nobody I would like to see. It's Katniss.

As my hands tighten around her thin, sinewy neck, I know that she's killed everything I love. I know that she's a mutt. I know that she's what's driven me insane, and I don't have to question the reality of her being because her muffled screams from me crushing her windpipe are real…

And I will do _anything _to grasp reality.


	7. Chapter 7: Bree

"Get them to let me go, Gale," I whisper eagerly, my hand resting on his wool-covered upper back. "Get them to let me go to Two!"

"I don't know if that's the best thing to do right now," Gale replies, raising a pitch black eyebrow in doubt. He is almost like an older brother, friendly but protective, which I've realized has been his nature towards me ever since the day he gave me one of his squirrels after seeing how I was starving. He knows that I haven't completely recovered from when I was hijacked over a month ago, and I'm sure he's worried that if I go around Katniss, I might harm her. Kill her; break the wings of their precious little Mockingjay. He shakes his head, and I catch a whiff of the standard-issue shampoo they give us here in Thirteen. Peppermint. Nothing too special. "They'll probably disregard the request anyway."

Not if I can help it. "Listen," I begin as though my very existence depends on it. "I'm not all _that_ insane. I'm at least five times better off than Peeta is. If they just let me talk to her—"

He grabs the long sleeve of my shirt assertively. "You'll kill her, Bree! You received a twelve-point score in training before your Games. Do you really think that they're going to let a trained killer like you around her?"

"That was _before _I was cured!"

His gray eyes shine angrily in the artificial light of the hallway. "The answer is _no_!"

My shoulders sink in rejection and I shove him off of me. "So much for 'friends,'" I grunt, my poorly-fitting shoes slamming angrily into the linoleum floors as I storm off. I want to help in the Rebellion. I don't just want to be some little pawn sitting on the sidelines as I watch everything unfold. I want to be in the action; Snow's hurt me as much as, or maybe even more than, anyone else in Panem. I want to watch Katniss kill him—make him suffer—if it's the last thing I get to do in this miserable life.

Gale swallows so hard that I can hear the spit moving into his esophagus from six feet away. "Wait," he says, raspy voice bouncing of the walls of the hall. I turn around abruptly to face him, and his voice drops an octave as he grumbles in dissent, "I'll put in a request for you."

An ear-to-ear grin spreads across my cheeks and I squeal in excitement. "Really? Oh thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you!" I cry, running up to hug my friend, who's been my advocate ever since he saved me from starvation.

"Yeah, yeah," he moans, patting my head like I'm a puppy. "Now leave me alone; I have to attend a meeting with Coin and the rest of the team so I can let them know that we might be having a new member."

I've seen many districts in my day. Well, really, only three; still, that's more than the average citizen of Panem will ever see in a lifetime. And out of all three districts I've been in, District 2 is perhaps the most terrifying. It's not the fact that it is historically known for being the Capitol's lapdog. It's the sheer vastness of the land; of the huge, patchy villages in the same mountains that spread into my home district, District 1, but are unfamiliar here with their lack of greenery. The idea that something so close to where I was born and raised could be totally different from home. It's the fact that so many people have to ignore the Capitol's wrongdoings in order to simply stay alive and healthy. The thought sends a chill down my spine as I continue to write it down in my journal.

A few hours after Gale had proposed the idea of me accompanying the team going to District 2 to the board and it was (quite narrowly) approved, I was approached by my restorative therapist, who has been helping me try to recover from the hijacking. You can imagine my surprise when the terms of my being able to journey to District 2 were revealed to me: I would only be allowed to go if I wrote every day—and had it checked by a commander named Boggs to be sure I wasn't lying—in addition to taking the plethora of pills I've been prescribed. No morphling. At all. Weaning myself off of the morphling is hard, especially with the constant tremors and chills, fevers, and frightening night terrors that are amplified by the withdrawal's side effects. To make it worse, the journaling is beyond the point of being annoying. I can't even stand to write a grocery list, nevertheless fill in the blanks for "how I feel" or "things that made me happy today." It would help if my therapist had chosen a prettier journal; the pages of this one are slightly yellowed and the cover is weathered red leather that is peeling off and turning brown in some spots. I suppose all journals have the same function though. And it's so typical of District 13 to choose something for function over style.

For those times when my mind is a discombobulated mess, like right now, I'm supposed to stop writing and remember all of the good things people have done for me before and after my hijacking. And, like always, I can't recall one good deed anyone's done for me except for Marvel. I still don't remember much about Peeta before the hijacking, except for bits and pieces like the kissing, the touching, the crying and pain, the emptiness I had without him. The comfort I find in being with him now. Except Marvel is my rock, my stability, my place of solace in hard times. I've refused him time and time again, but, to his own detriment, he's always right back there for me. I keep hurting him and I don't know how to stop. My leaving Thirteen will hopefully give him a chance to forget about me.

I close the hideous book and set it softly onto the table, centering the pen vertically on top of the journal, and I wait for the predictable tears to sting the corners of my eyes. I wait, but they don't come, and it is now when I realize that my tear ducts are almost completely dry because of how much I've been crying. So instead, I let out an anguished whimper and sink my head into my hands, letting them cradle the worries of my mind and heart if only for a moment. Outside of my tent, I hear soft footsteps sinking into the grass. They stop as they reach the large opening flap of the tent door and I know that the person has heard my whining. The door peels back and a familiarly soothing, low-pitched female voice that I haven't heard in quite a while materializes in the thin air.

"Hey," Katniss says weakly. I glance up at her and see a heavily scarred, emotionally damaged version of the Katniss I once briefly knew. Deep purple bruises stain the side of her neck and underneath her eyes. She looks a mess, but I'm sure I don't look much better.

I force a strained smile. "Hey, Everdeen," I reply softly, gesturing for her to sit down in the chair across from where I sit.

She pulls the chair out from under the table but hesitates before sitting down, parting her full lips as though to say something. Her head is sunken down into her chest, her breathing goes shallow, and all is still for a moment. Our silence says more than either of us could ever have said.

We are both afraid of the future.

She finally sinks into the hard seat of the chair and looks up at me, eyes watery and lips pressed tight like she's fighting to keep her words, her pain, her emptiness inside of her. The independent and emotionally hardened girl I saw in the Arena is no longer that girl. The Katniss that sits before me is vulnerable, sad, hurt, and angry. She is broken, and for the first time I realize that we have a lot more in common than I once thought. That there is no way that this terrified young woman could have killed my sister and brother so heartlessly.

And for the first time, I have really broken free what being hijacked did to me.

But we are still far from a happy ending.


	8. Chapter 8: Marvel

The delicate texture of the envelope rubs between my fingers as I stare at the beautiful penmanship inscribed at the front. "Marvel Corvan," written in mature and curly cursive, the only type of cursive that can send my heart fluttering nearly out of my chest. I rip open the cream-colored flap and slowly pull out two sheets of folded, yellowed paper that, if held to the light, would be so translucent as to reveal the same cursive writing that was on the envelope. MY hands slowly unfold the letter, half afraid of its contents and half excited about its sender.

"November 30th. Dear Marvel," the letter begins.

_I never thought the day would come when I'd say that I miss 13. I miss the uniformity, the security in knowing that my life wasn't at stake. As you can well attest, District 13 has been a much-needed break from all of the chaos that's been in our lives since last summer. But even with all of its safety and reassurance, we are still not protected from the looming threats of our futures. I've grown mature enough to understand that now; it's a lesson I realize you've been trying to teach me since Snow sent us to District 12 last year. All I want is a "safe house," somewhere where I can escape this all. I'm sure you could agree with me on that. I'm sure Peeta, Katniss, and Gale would as well. Except none of us can afford to put our guard down. I believe that is why Katniss was shot, not just because of an angry Capitol-supporter. She assumed she was safe before she really was._

_I'm sorry if this letter rambles, I've just been such a mess lately. I missed your 19__th__ birthday today, and for that I am so, so sorry. I have neither money to buy you anything nor any talents to make you something. If I could've made you something, I would've knit you the ugliest mohair sweater ever, because I know you would've thought that that was the most hilarious thing in the world and despite it being awful, you would wear it simply because I was the one who made it._

_ Anyway, there is something that I've been meaning to discuss with you._

At this point, my heart goes from fluttering to flailing desperately as I attempt to keep it inside of my ribcage. Here comes the dreaded bad news.

_I can't be around you anymore. I know that sounds harsh, but unfortunately, I am not good for you. You have always been there for me, from the very start. You've tried your hardest to protect me, to shield me, to help me, but I am unable to be helped. Even though there is still tracker-jacker venom running through my veins, I'm slowly becoming myself again. I know it. But I do not like the person I was. I used you, Marvel; I used you like I used to use Peeta, but more so. I used you in order to fix myself when I was hurt, and you continued to allow yourself to be used. You don't deserve that. You don't deserve someone like me. You don't deserve the pain, heartache, and anxiety I've caused you. So I ask—no, beg of you to forget about me, to let me go, and to leave me alone for your own good and for mine. I don't want to be the girl you loved anymore, because she was not the girl __I __loved being._

_Now that the venom has cleared a little, I can recall one particularly cold night before I was hijacked, when I stood in our old shack in 12 and you stood in front of me. I wanted you to kiss me so badly, but you left for Madge. I was hurt, but in the end it was because I had thought that I would've lost both you and Peeta. I had used you once again. But you see, Madge was the kind of girl worth loving. She was nothing like I was. She was selfless and had this beautifully unassuming quality about her that I'm sure you realized once you and she became close. Find a girl like her, Marvel. Find one that won't have you dangling on a string. Find a __real_ _girl worth loving, and you'll be truly happy._

_With much love and good wishes,_

_Breelle_

My breath suspends for a moment as the contents of the letter sink into my skin, into my heart and my brain. Katniss was shot—I knew that; it's been a big commotion since yesterday, when they rushed her back to the hospital here in Thirteen and I haven't heard the end of it since then. Bree missed my birthday; okay, that was expected. But this, this is out of the blue. Her decision to leave me seems so unlike her, so cold and callous through the letter that I must reread that section at least four times.

After the last time, I notice the very slight tear stains around the last two paragraphs. She wrote this letter because she loves me. Because, despite her feelings for Peeta and the perilous situation we are all in, she still has a place for me in her heart.

I finally exhale and lie back on my bed, thinking back on all the times I allowed myself to be used, those times when I didn't care about how it was affecting me. I still don't. I don't care what happens to me in the slightest. Without my family around me, my friends, and now Bree, I have nothing left to live for. I am nothing but a body in this chrome cell of a room, in a foreign place and a foreign situation. If I had never been chosen for the Games, I would be home in District One with my family, attending Olinde Guillemin Country Day School as a Senior 2 and perhaps planning my life as a future businessman. I would be going to parties at the country clubs and people's opulent homes. I would sleep with random girls like I used to. I would be pretending to care about all those superficial things the people back home care about, and I would be content.

But I would never be truly happy.

I would never have known what it was like to experience true love. I would never have understood the idea of self-sacrifice and I would never have really appreciated the value of friendship. Bree, Gale, and Madge gave me all of that, and without the Hunger Games, I wouldn't have gotten close to any of them. So in a twisted way, I should thank Snow.

I've been so caught up in musing on the possibilities of the past that I missed a bit of writing on the back of the last page. "P.S.," it reads.

_I forgot to mention that I return tomorrow. I have asked the officials not to alert you, due to the fact that I don't want there to be any commotion caused by those other nosy residents. They have assigned me an actual compartment since I am now in outpatient therapy. The number is 328, come by if you get the chance and you'd like to discuss this further. I fully understand if you don't want to speak to me ever again._

I spring up from the bed and burst from my compartment, ignoring the schedule on my forearm that reads _18:00—Reflection _and sprinting to the elevator. I violently press the up arrow, despite the fact that it lit up the first time. The doors finally open, and I throw myself onto the elevator, almost falling onto a poor bystander who looks at me as though I'm from another planet. Clearing my throat awkwardly, I mumble, "Floor Three, please." The man nods and silently presses the button as we fly up to the third floor. I smile a little uncomfortably and run out of the door, down the hall. The numbers whizz past my sides, and finally I see 328 straight ahead at the very end of the hall.

I knock fervently on the door without ceasing until it flies open, revealing a very short, thin young woman with deep red hair. Her characteristically pink lips purse a bit and her eyes widen, revealing a great deal of surprise. Then, the dimples on the sides of her bottom lip show themselves as she breaks out into a smile. "I didn't think you'd come."

I stare for a minute in awe of Bree's sheer, natural beauty, even though there are dark circles and bags under her amber-brown eyes. Then, as if by reflex, I throw my arms around her and pull her into a hug. The words start to pour out of my mouth like vomit. "I didn't love Madge, I loved you—for who you were. I still do. I need you more than you'll ever know. Don't cut me off again, please. I don't care what happens to me. All I want is you."

I feel her breathing halt against my chest and she slides out from under my arms. She crosses her own over her gray uniform. "You're crying," she whispers faintly, and then reaches up to wipe tears from my face. "It's not a very becoming look on you." With that, she smiles and tells me to move inside and close the door so our conversation isn't heard.

We stroll over to her bed and Bree motions for me to sit down next to her. "Marvel," she says, turning her eyes away from my face. "You can't keep doing this to yourself. Or me. You think I like hurting you?"

I blush and bite my lip. "I just followed what you told me to do in your letter."

She keeps her eyes focused intently on her lap. "You followed the last part of it. I didn't expect you to. The old Marvel wouldn't have come. He would've been pissed at me for years. What happened to him?"

"He's grown up, like you."

Bree lets out a weak laugh. "And aren't we all forced to grow up now?" she mutters under her breath. Finally she looks up at me, but stares at my lips. "Maybe I didn't want you to grow up."

I echo her laughter. "Maybe I didn't want _you_ to grow up. Not if I knew you were going to cut me off."

Her eyes move up to mine, and what I see in them is something I could only see in the new, "grown up" Bree: pure, unadulterated pain. A pain so terrible that it radiates from those eyes all the way into your own bones. "This was a mistake," she says, and for a moment I assume she means that her deciding to leave me was a mistake. But slowly, I realize that she means that even seeing me was a mistake. "I can't have a normal conversation with you anymore."

She's right. We've got too much history, too many feelings and unspoken heartache between us to try to cover it up with civilized small talk. "Maybe it was a mistake," I begin, leaning closer to her so that my lips are touching her forehead, and I am talking into it. "But mistakes have consequences," I am smiling against the smooth skin of her face now. "So what are the consequences for this mistake going to be?"

Bree closes her eyes for a moment and almost gives in to the offer I proposed, but then suddenly she shoves me away from her and stands up. "God! You just don't know when to stop, Marvel!"

All of the anger I've suppressed from every irritating event that occurred since I was chosen for the Hunger Games finally releases itself onto Bree, and my old anger-management issues resurface, letting the old, fiery Marvel loose. I stand up from the bed and begin screaming, "_You_ don't know when to stop hurting people, Bree! Think about it: why did you _really_ invite me here? If you were so intent on getting rid of me, you wouldn't have given me the number to your compartment. You wouldn't have invited me inside when I showed up, and you surely wouldn't have let me kiss your forehead!"

"I invited you here so that I could tell you in person as a friend, not as anything else! You really have gone batshit," she relatiates, giving me a look of hatred I've never seen before.

This sends me over the edge, and in a split second I leap up and pin her to the wall. "Say that to me again, girl. Say I'm crazy, and I'll tell you exactly what everyone thinks of you." She squirms beneath my arms, her thick, wavy hair trapped between my fingers. I see the terror in her eyes, not unlike the terror in the young D-11 girl seconds before I speared her in the stomach. It's the terror you feel when you know you're in your last seconds, that any breath could be your last. Her body quivers under me and I know I've revealed myself for who I really am: a typical, heartless Career from District 1.

Horrified with myself, I release my grip on her and step back, my own body shaking as badly as hers. "I—I can't believe myself. Bree, I'm so, so, _so_ sorry. You've got to believe me," I beg.

Bree regains an ounce of composure and points at the door, crying, "You're SICK, Marvel Corvan. You haven't changed; you've gotten even worse. Get out of my compartment!"

I am still shaking when she pushes me out of the door, slamming it in my face. My palms rest on the steel of the door and I begin to bawl, but then I whip around and begin to run. Run away from any chance I had left with Bree, from the mistake I've made and from the only reason I had left to live.

I had said to myself earlier that I didn't care whether I lived or died, that I've grown up and that the new Marvel is better. But what I didn't realize was that the new Marvel Corvan is a monster, and that the real one died a long, long time ago.


End file.
